The Art of Seduction (12 page)

They came together as the voices rose to a shattering crescendo. Soaring with emotion. Basking in the fulfillment of a yearning too long denied. As they lay still in each others' arms, the voices hushed, then the music ended. And on its heels, a thundering applause. It seemed in the enchantment of the moment that the audience applauded them.

Richard pushed himself up, remembering, as she was, where they were. She caught the glint of humor in his eyes and, all at once, they began to laugh.

But he sobered quickly. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I'm so much more than all right.”

“I didn't hurt you?”

“Hurt me?” She stroked his cheek. “You absolutely thrilled me.”

His eyes registered something akin to gratitude before he softly kissed her lips.

They heard the audience rising for the first break. Sheepishly, they eased themselves up, righting their clothing, then noting the other's shyness, laughed again.

“I can't think why,” she told him playfully, “but I seem to have developed an overpowering thirst.”

He grinned and put his finger to her mouth. “I can't imagine why. Come, we'll go get something to drink.”

They left the box and followed the crowd up the corridor and into the Grand Foyer. It was a spectacular rectangular chamber perhaps 200 feet long, with glass windows that looked out on Avenue de l'Opéra as it stretched all the way to the Louvre. It was modeled after the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, but the ceiling had been painted in the style of the Sistine Chapel in Rome.

“I shall park you here for a moment while I fetch you that drink,” he told her.

Suddenly alone, she felt a bit awkward. All around her, the cream of Parisian society was milling about, chatting amiably, greeting one another. Still in the afterglow of love, she smiled to herself, thinking,
If they only knew what we've just done!

But gradually she noticed their tone change into more of a hushed buzz. Nearby she heard a woman say to her companion, “My dear, isn't that the Duchess of Wimsley?”

Before long, the name was sweeping through the crowd.

“They say she's the most beautiful woman in England.”

“Her husband is as rich as Croesus.”

“I hear the Prince of Wales is mad about her.”

“
Mon Dieu,
that complexion!”

Curious, Mason snaked her way through the assemblage to see this fabled beauty for herself.

In the center of the hall, she spotted a small party isolated from the rest of the crowd. It took her only a moment to pick out the duchess in question. She was the most tastefully striking woman Mason had ever seen. Her features were delicate, yet sophisticated. Everything about her, from the styling of her auburn hair, to the creaminess of her complexion, to the exquisite white satin gown embroidered with real pearls, spoke of the sort of wealth and pampering most people only dreamed of. She presented a picture of effortless grace and impeccable breeding, but she smiled at her companions with a warmth that put everyone around her at their ease.

Mason watched for several minutes, then returned to her previous spot just as Richard came back with two glasses of champagne. Before long, the house lights flashed on and off to signal the end of the interval. She gave him a sly grin. “I can't wait to see what the second act has in store for us.”

His eyes were warm on her face.

But just as they were exiting the foyer, fate put them in the path of the party Mason had earlier been watching. The breathtaking duchess glanced at them, then gave a small gasp. “Richard!”

Mason felt him tense beside her. When she looked up at him, she saw that his sated serenity had vanished, replaced by some flinty emotion she couldn't read. “Emma,” he said matter-of-factly.

They knew each other? Richard and this paragon of regal grace? Mason was stabbed by a sudden senseless insecurity.

“How lovely to see you again, darling,” the woman he'd called Emma said, recovering her composure. “What brings you to Paris?”

“I think you know,” he said with concentrated effort. Mason knew this manner well. He was, once again, attempting to keep his emotions leashed. He almost looked as if he could hit the woman without a qualm.

What had happened between them to cause such a strained response?

“Don't tell me this is the sister?” Emma was saying.

They were blocking the exit, but no one was about to push their way past them.

Mason waited for Richard to make the introductions. When he didn't, the duchess did it for him. “I'm Emma. The last name is Fortescue-Wynthrop-Smythe. It's a mouthful, I know. But I should so like it if you'd call me Emma.”

Mason took the hand she was offered; it was tiny and impossibly smooth. “I'm Amy Caldwell.”

“You amaze me,” Richard quipped to Emma. “I should think you'd want everyone to call you ‘your grace.'”

Emma's smile deepened. “Not my old friends!”

“We seem to be blocking traffic. We'd best move on.”

But before he could, Emma reached over and put her hand on his. “You're looking well, Richard.”

The look in his eyes was hard as stone. “And you,” he countered in a low tone, “look as if you have everything you deserve.”

Her eyes glazed over and Mason caught a flicker of pain. She covered it with a courteous smile. “I'm staying at my dear friend the Duchess of Galliera's villa while she's away at Capri. You might stop by some time. We could…talk over old times.”

“I think you know better than that.”

She raised her chin a notch. “Well, if you change your mind, the invitation stands. Do enjoy the show. And, Amy, I'm certain we shall see each other again. Perhaps soon.”

As they walked back toward their box, Mason asked, “What was
that
all about?”

“That
London Times
story must have drawn her out.”

“What do you mean?”

He shot her a warning look. “She's come for Mason's paintings. And she'll do anything to get them. Do me one favor, would you? Avoid her at all costs.”

“Why?”

“Because she'll just stash them away in her husband's collection and no one will ever see them again. Tomorrow or the day after, she'll come to you, oozing sweetness, and make an offer. But you can't trust anything she says. So don't see her. Don't talk to her. Just keep as wide a berth from her as you can.”

He veered them toward the descending staircase.

“Where are you going?” she asked. “The box is the other way.”

He looked at her apologetically, but she could see an unexpressed anger lurking at the back of his eyes. “I had an enjoyable evening, Amy, but I think we've had enough opera for one night.”

Mason followed him out. She didn't understand what had happened in the foyer. But she knew two things: Richard and this Emma Fortescue-Wynthrop-Smythe had a tumultuous history, and the breathtaking duchess was still very much in love with him.

T
he next day, Mason stood with Richard on the platform at Gare St-Lazare as her train prepared to depart. He seemed unaccountably edgy, casting glances back over his shoulder when he thought she wasn't looking. But she'd been studying him like a hawk, ever since last night, when the appearance of that extraordinary woman had served as a bucket of cold water thrown in his face.

It had, in fact, been his idea that she return to the country. He'd all but insisted on it, while taking pains to make his insistence seem casual, as if he were suggesting it for her own good. It made her wonder what he was hiding and why he didn't want her to meet with the disturbingly alluring duchess.

“I must say, you seem awfully eager to get me back to Auvers. You didn't have to bring me to the station, you know.”

“Well, you did say you were enjoying your holiday, and seemed perturbed at me for dragging you back to town to meet Hank. The meeting is over, so it's just as well that you return to your rest.”

“You
are
thoughtful.”

“I have things to keep me occupied. Construction on the pavilion begins today, and I want to stay on top of it until I'm convinced it's moving smoothly. In a few days, I have a reporter coming in from Berlin, and hopefully I can keep the momentum going by having him do something similar to what appeared in London.”

“That London piece seems to be drawing some interesting characters our way.”

He arched a brow at her as if wondering if she was being sarcastic. But instead of beating the point, he said, “Another thing. The instant you get word about when and how the paintings are going to be sent from America, let me know so I can make arrangements from this end to receive them.”

Was she imagining the note of challenge in his voice? She dodged him by saying, “You have enough to worry about. Getting the rest of the paintings is my problem.”

“I only wanted to be of assistance.”

“You seem to be full of helpful suggestions this morning.”

His gaze flicked over her, but he merely shrugged. “Suit yourself. But we need them no later than mid-June. They must be cataloged, framed, and hung properly. It's quite an undertaking.”

“Don't worry. They'll be there.”

The conductor yelled, “
En voiture
,” signaling that it was time for the train to depart.

“Well, then, off you go,” he said. “Pleasant journey.”

There it was again, that strange look in his eyes. He bent and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then handed her up the step, giving the porter her valise.

The train slowly began to chug off. Satisfied, Richard turned and headed back toward the exit. Mason stuck her head out and watched him until he was completely out of sight, then snatched up her valise and, ignoring the startled porter, jumped off the moving train.

As it passed her by in a swirl of steam, she reached into her handbag and withdrew the calling card that had arrived early that morning requesting an appointment to discuss an important matter of business. She looked once again at the embossed lettering:
THE DUCHESS OF WIMSLEY
.

She felt a little guilty about deceiving Richard. But she was in love with him, and she had a right to know exactly what part this woman had played in his life.

She glanced at the station clock and realized she had only twenty minutes to return to her hotel. Leaving by the station's side exit, she stepped into a fiacre cab and told the driver to rush her back to Rue Scribe.

Arriving there with only minutes to spare, she hurried up to her room to find Lisette nearly ready. She wore a red wig, austere dress, and spectacles. When she saw her, Mason laughed.

“I like the wig. Where did you get it?”

“It's Mimi's, the fire-eater from the circus. It's a bit scorched here and there, but I don't think it's too noticeable.”

“Have you got the story straight?”

“I think so.”

“It doesn't matter too much. The story is just an excuse for you to be here. What I really want is for you to give me your expert opinion about this woman.”

There was a knock on the door. Hastily, Mason smoothed her own clothing, took a breath, then went to answer it. Instead of the expected party, she found a uniformed man standing in the hall, hat in hand.

“Yes?” she asked.

“My name is Percival, Miss Caldwell. I have the honor of presenting her grace, the Duchess of Wimsley. I understand that she is expected.”

“Why, yes.”

He turned back toward the elevator. “Your grace is awaited,” he announced.

Mason looked at Lisette, who was rolling her eyes.

From the depths of the lift stepped the duchess, a vision in feathers and fur. She walked forth with unhurried poise, so smoothly she seemed to be floating down the hall. If anything, she was even more stunning than she'd appeared the night before.

Her beauty was so majestic that it instantly changed the energy in the room. Unable to help herself, Lisette muttered,
“Mon Dieu!”

The duchess held forth her slender gloved hand and said, “Miss Caldwell, it's terribly kind of you to allow me to impose my company upon you this way, and on such short notice. My hope is that you'll forgive my intrusion when you hear why I've come.”

Mason shook her hand. The kid glove was so meltingly soft that it was an effort to keep from stroking it.

“Please come in, Mrs…. duchess…?”

“Now, now, you promised to call me Emma. And I shall call you Amy, if I may. I'm hoping we're going to be dear friends.” She stepped inside, then spotted Lisette in her red wig and jail-matron's dress. “Oh, but have I come at an inopportune time? I seem to be interrupting something.”

“This is Mademoiselle Lafarge,” Mason told her. “She's the personal secretary of Monsieur Beart, who you no doubt know is the wealthiest planter in the French colony of Réunion in the Indian Ocean. It seems Monsieur Beart is determined to buy my sister's paintings to decorate his new plantation.”

Emma eyed Lisette with cheerful interest. “Monsieur Beart. That wouldn't be Emile Beart, would it?”

Returning the smile easily, Lisette answered, “I have never heard of Emile Beart. My employer's name is Henri.”

“Ah,
Henri
Beart. I don't believe I know the gentleman.”

“He doesn't get back to Europe very often.”

“And indeed, why should he? I'm told Réunion is quite lovely. But he must place a great deal of trust in you to send you on such a long journey by yourself.”

“I enjoy the monsieur's full confidence.”

“I'm certain you do.” She walked over to Lisette, looking her over pleasantly. “And perhaps he considers you unusually appropriate for the task since, without the glasses, you would seem to bear an uncanny resemblance to the model so charmingly depicted in Mason Caldwell's paintings. Now, what was her name? Monsieur Falconier was kind enough to tell me…Oh, yes, I believe it was Lisette Ladoux.”

The imposter couldn't think of a comeback.

Mason started to change the subject, but their visitor stepped over to Lisette and picked a long strand of blond hair from her shoulder. “But, of course, the famous trapeze artist of the Cirque Fernando is a blonde, not a redhead.”

Knowing the game was up, Lisette took the wig in hand and tossed it to the vanity. “She's too sharp for me, this one.”

“You mustn't distress yourself, my dear,” Emma told her. “I've only just come from seeing the paintings. I would have a paltry eye should I not be able to spot a lovely face such as yours beneath the disguise.”

Feeling foolish, Mason said, “I'm sorry. We were just having a little fun.”

Waving a dismissive hand, Emma said, “I understand completely. You want to secure the highest possible offer for your sister's paintings, so you provided a fictitious buyer to boost the price. A clever move, but quite unnecessary, I assure you. I'm accustomed to paying handsomely for the things I want, and I've come here today with the best offer you will receive from anyone.”

“Won't you sit down?” Mason offered. “We could send down for some tea or something.”

Emma sat, her back ramrod straight. “Please, don't bother. I imagine you're eager to hear my proposal. As you may or may not know, my husband is the Duke of Wimsley, and one of the wealthiest collectors in England. I read about your sister's paintings in the
Times
and knew at once that I must pop across the Channel to see them for myself. I've developed quite an instinct for such things under my husband's tutelage, and I confess to being most gratified, on seeing the paintings this morning, to find that my instincts have not been unfounded. They're absolutely marvelous and we simply must have them for the Wimsley Collection.”

“Must you?” Mason murmured.

Emma pretended not to hear. “I am in the position to match any offer”—she glanced at Lisette and amended—“any
legitimate
offer and raise it by a quarter.”

“That's most generous of you. But as the caretaker for my sister's work, money is not the only consideration.”

“Oh, but I offer so much
more
than money. I can give them the maximum exposure among the denizens of the beau monde, all of whom pass through our doors at one time or another. Our collection is the talk of Europe. You may ask anyone. All the best people come to our salon just to see it. Our influence in the art world is well-documented, I assure you. With our patronage, your late sister will become one of the most spoken-of artists of our day.”

“I don't doubt it.”

“But you're not going to jump at it…even though it's an offer no one else will be able to match?”

“I'll consider it carefully, but I'm sure you understand I have a grave responsibility.”

Emma gave her a thoughtful look. “Perhaps your hesitancy has something to do with our mutual friend, Mr. Garrett.”

“Richard has been quite helpful to me.”

“Oh, I'm sure he has.”

“I don't know what I would have done without him. He's offered sound advice and helped me navigate my way through the treacherous waters of journalists, critics, dealers, and…patrons of the arts,” she added pointedly.

A flicker of contempt showed in the woman's eyes. “Naturally, my dear, he has an ulterior motive.”

“And what would that be?”

“What has he suggested you do with the paintings?”

“He's suggested several options.”

“Oh, come now, Amy. He wouldn't want them in the hands of a speculator or collector. He detests the idea of art being cloistered away where it can't be appreciated by the masses. So he must have something else in mind.”

Feeling overwhelmed by the woman, and stabbed by jealousy at her knowledge of Richard, Mason said rather irritably, “Actually, he has another buyer in mind.”

“Oh? And who might that be?”

“I don't know that I'm at liberty to say. But someone he knows well and trusts implicitly.”

Emma tapped the fingers of both hands together. But a moment later, they stopped and she grew still. “Not…Hank?” Mason's startled reaction told her she'd hit the target. “Hank Thompson?”

She threw her head back and laughed. Given her poised demeanor, it was so unexpected that Mason and Lisette exchanged a baffled glance.

“What in the world does that old bandit want with Impressionist paintings?”

Mason flushed. “If you must know, he's interested in endowing a museum devoted entirely to Impressionism.”

“Hank?” She laughed again. “My dear Amy, I have no idea what they've told you, but believe me, you really must take anything those two have to say with a grain of salt. Off and on over the years, they've been partners in a number of schemes. Whatever this one is, it's not going to earn you a fraction of the money I can offer. Or do half as much for your sister's reputation.”

Mason's head began to pound. “That sounds very pretty, but Richard warned me about you.”

“Warned you? About
me
?” The color drained from Emma's aristocratic face. It was so satisfying that Mason took it a step further.

“In fact, he told me to avoid you at all costs. He went as far as to say you weren't to be trusted.”

Emma's eyes flared like a lioness about to pounce. “He said
that
? He said
I
was not to be trusted? When everything he says and does is a lie?”

The statement shocked Mason. “What are you talking about?”

“Lying is his profession. His whole existence is one fabrication after the other, concocted to hide the fact that he's a detective.”